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Pièces de clavecin, Book 2

Recordings

'By turning her attention to these works, Angela Hewitt may succeed in reviving and popularising Couperin’s enchanting music as no modern-day harpsich ...'Hewitt bridges the gulf between studio and home listener with uncanny directness. An outstanding disc' (BBC Music Magazine)» More

'Angela Hewitt works her magic on the most instrument-specific of the French grand siècle harpsichordists, not least by respecting rather than ...'First, the bad news. This third splendid selection of Couperin's keyboard music from Angela Hewitt is reported to be the last in the series. The good ...» More

Details

Dating from 1716/17, the second book of Pièces de Clavecin begins with the Sixième Ordre, a set of eight pieces all in B flat major. This was the first time he used the same key throughout, and that alone gives this ordre a sense of unity that is lacking in many of the others. It is one of the most successful in concert performance as it has all the necessary ingredients to make a satisfying whole. It also harks back to Couperin’s rustic origins, beginning with Les Moissonneurs (‘The Reapers’). Marked gaÿement (‘gaily’), it is in the rhythm and tempo of a gavotte, and is a naïve, good-natured rondeau. In the third couplet, which moves up the keyboard, the melody is presented in thirds to provide a charming effect.

One of Couperin’s loveliest compositions is Les Langueurs-Tendres (‘Tender Languors’). Its lyrical melody is a beautiful example of Couperin’s mastery of line, with the left hand providing exemplary support. The ornamentation is rich but not unnecessary: every note speaks and has a role to play. The mood is slightly melancholic—one which will occur again in again in Couperin’s harpsichord works, often quite subconsciously. Pierre Citron, in his 1956 biography of the composer, quotes the following lines of Saint-Évremond (c1614–1703) in regard to this piece: ‘To languish is the most beautiful movement of love; it is the delicate result of a pure flame which gently consumes us; it is a sweet and cherished malady which makes us dread the idea of being healed’. Wilfrid Mellers, who wrote the first English biography of Couperin in 1949, remarks on the closeness of such a melodic line to the French language, which I believe is very true.

We are outdoors for Le Gazoüillement (‘The Warbling’). Marked gracieusement et coulé (‘gracefully and smooth’), it takes place solely in the top part of the keyboard, and the chirping or warbling is portrayed more by the delicacy of the touch than by any direct imitation of birds. In his treatise on keyboard playing, Couperin remarks frequently on the importance of playing delicately, saying that ‘Beautiful playing depends a great deal more on suppleness and great freedom of the fingers rather than on force’. This is certainly one piece where that is needed. An ‘echo’ effect in the third couplet of this rondeau is marked plaintivement (‘plaintively’).

The whole keyboard is used in this piece, La Bersan, probably named after the Lord of Bersan or his daughter Suzanne who might have been one of Couperin’s students. Here we are more reminded of Bach in his use of imitation and harmonic progressions.

The third rondeau of the ordre is one of Couperin’s most famous harpsichord pieces, Les Baricades Mistérieuses. The title is indeed a mystery and Couperin left no clues. The two hands are certainly ‘barricaded’ in the lower half of the keyboard, a particularly sonorous area on the French harpsichords of the time. I have even heard it explained as ‘ladies’ underwear’, or to be more specific ‘chastity belt’! Clark and Connon explain it as the masks worn in Le Mystère, one of the frequent divertissements put on by the Duchesse Du Maine at the Château de Sceaux in order to relieve her insomnia. What does matter about this piece is that it is one of the best examples of what is called the style brisé (broken texture)—a technique of composition stemming from lute-playing where the melodic line appears in an arpeggiated context. Everything is spread out, yet we hear each individual line clearly. Two bits of advice with which Couperin ends his treatise are important here: ‘It is necessary to preserve a perfect legato in all that you play … and do not hold notes for longer than is notated’. That is easier said than done, as anyone who has attempted to play this piece knows well. It has a slightly hypnotic effect, no doubt due to the recurring theme and the sounds emanating from the lower register.

Here is a pastoral piece, titled Les Bergeries (‘The Sheepfolds’). In rondeau form, it has a musette imitating the drone of a bagpipe as the second couplet. This calm evocation of nature must have made an impression on J S Bach as he copied it into the 1725 Notebook for Anna Magdalena Bach, his second wife. One interesting difference in the notation concerns the length of notes in the left hand: what is known as ‘finger-pedalling’ to keyboard players (holding notes with the fingers longer than notated to produce a harmony) is actually written out by Couperin, whereas Bach chose not to write it this way but presumably played it like that (a common Baroque practice). It is thought that Bach and Couperin at one time corresponded (they certainly never met, as both of them stayed in a relatively small area all their lives), but evidently their letters ended up as jam-pot covers (or so the story goes!) and thus were lost for ever.

To end the Sixième Ordre, Couperin writes an Italian gigue called Le Moucheron (‘The Gnat’). With wit, he portrays this annoying insect turning in circles and buzzing around, really making a nuisance of himself in a passage with left-hand trills. It brings this charming, good-natured ordre to a perfect conclusion.

La Ménetou, which opens the Septième Ordre, depicts a female artist, Françoise Charlotte de Ménethoud (born 1680). She was a gifted child who sang, danced, played the harpsichord and flute, and also composed. At the age of nine she performed for the King. For her, Couperin wrote one of his loveliest rondos, full of tenderness and grace. The refrain uses his much-loved ‘lute style’ (style brisé) and the whole piece remains in the lower half of the keyboard, giving it an extra gentleness. That is one quality that is really possible to bring out when playing Couperin on the piano. In the composer’s own words:

The harpsichord is perfect with regard to its compass and its brilliance; but as one can neither swell nor diminish the sound, I am always grateful to those who, by an art sustained by taste, are able to render the instrument susceptible to expression.

There are ways, of course, of being expressive on the harpsichord and they are many and varied. But the piano has the potential to go one step further in making a phrase expressive. Couperin was the epitome of grace, of light and shade, of subtle inflections, of melancholy and lightheartedness. Above all, Couperin wanted music to affect people:

I love much better the things which touch me than those which surprise me.

The Huitième Ordre is one of the greatest of Couperin’s entire output, and, I think, one of the best of all the Baroque keyboard suites. It is written entirely in the key of B minor—a solemn, majestic, solitary key which was unusual for the time. Bach was perhaps paying homage to Couperin when he wrote his French Overture in B minor (BWV831) as there are quite a few similarities. It opens with a grand-scale allemande, La Raphaéle, full of dramatic gestures and with the dotted rhythms so characteristic of the French style. The chromaticisms in the second section are remarkable for their intensity and expressiveness.

This allemande is certainly more Italian than French, which might explain the title, L’Ausoniéne (Ausonia was a poetic name for Italy). Telling us to play lightly, Couperin charms us with this steadily-moving dance played, for the most part, in the lower part of the keyboard.

This ordre is much closer to the normal Baroque idea of a suite with its set sequence of dance movements (allemande, courante, sarabande, various galanteries, gigue). Not content with only one courante, Couperin here gives us two, both of which seem prime candidates for what is called notes inégales (inequality). This is a little similar to what jazz musicians would call ‘swing’. It denotes an alteration of the notated rhythm, usually when the notes are stepwise, so that one note is longer than the other although they are written in equal values. The earliest mention of it in France dates back to 1550. So much confusing material has been written on the subject that it is difficult to be sure how widespread a practise this was. For sure, in the France of Couperin’s day it was widely used, as he writes in his treatise:

In my opinion, there are defects in our method of writing music which correspond to our manner of writing our language. We write differently from the way we play, which is the reason why foreigners play our music less well than we play theirs. On the contrary, the Italians write their music in the true note values in which it is to be played. For example, we dot several eight notes in succession moving by conjunct degrees; however, we write them in equal time values. Our custom has enslaved us and we continue in it.

It seems important, therefore, to understand this way of playing and to know when it should or should not be used. Musical judgement plays a big role in deciding. To apply it everywhere indiscriminately seems wrong and sounds like a student practising a piece in rhythms (a well-known but, I think, useless method of practising). In these courantes, which might otherwise sound a trifle dull, it certainly adds elegance, rhythmic vitality, and makes them much more danceable. Although Couperin doesn’t indicate any difference in tempo between these two courantes, I have adopted the practise of playing the second one slightly faster than the first, something which he asks for in other similar cases.

This ordre is much closer to the normal Baroque idea of a suite with its set sequence of dance movements (allemande, courante, sarabande, various galanteries, gigue). Not content with only one courante, Couperin here gives us two, both of which seem prime candidates for what is called notes inégales (inequality). This is a little similar to what jazz musicians would call ‘swing’. It denotes an alteration of the notated rhythm, usually when the notes are stepwise, so that one note is longer than the other although they are written in equal values. The earliest mention of it in France dates back to 1550. So much confusing material has been written on the subject that it is difficult to be sure how widespread a practise this was. For sure, in the France of Couperin’s day it was widely used, as he writes in his treatise:

In my opinion, there are defects in our method of writing music which correspond to our manner of writing our language. We write differently from the way we play, which is the reason why foreigners play our music less well than we play theirs. On the contrary, the Italians write their music in the true note values in which it is to be played. For example, we dot several eight notes in succession moving by conjunct degrees; however, we write them in equal time values. Our custom has enslaved us and we continue in it.

It seems important, therefore, to understand this way of playing and to know when it should or should not be used. Musical judgement plays a big role in deciding. To apply it everywhere indiscriminately seems wrong and sounds like a student practising a piece in rhythms (a well-known but, I think, useless method of practising). In these courantes, which might otherwise sound a trifle dull, it certainly adds elegance, rhythmic vitality, and makes them much more danceable. Although Couperin doesn’t indicate any difference in tempo between these two courantes, I have adopted the practise of playing the second one slightly faster than the first, something which he asks for in other similar cases.

The sarabande is traditionally the expressive core of the suite, and this movement, entitled L’Unique certainly fulfils that role. By sticking to the middle and lower parts of the keyboard, Couperin gives us a deep, dark sound that perfectly suits the key of B minor. This sarabande is unusual in that, all of a sudden, it departs from its stately gait and is twice interrupted by two measures in 3/8 time marked vivement (‘lively’). The anxiety thus created makes the returning tempo seem all the more solemn.

The two galanteries inserted at this point are a Gavotte marked tendrement (‘tenderly’) and a Rondeau marked gayement (‘gaily’). They serve to lighten the mood after the sarabande and to prepare us for the final movements.

The two galanteries inserted at this point are a Gavotte marked tendrement (‘tenderly’) and a Rondeau marked gayement (‘gaily’). They serve to lighten the mood after the sarabande and to prepare us for the final movements.

In Couperin’s case, this is a magnificent Passacaille, one of his favourite forms in which he was always inspired. This dance originated in Spain and was performed at the time of Corpus Christi, when dancers and guitarists would parade through the streets (and from where comes the name: passar calle). Some of the wild, proud Spanish temperament remains in the theme chosen by Couperin in this movement. It is stated nine times (or, rather, eighteen times as the first four bars are repeated) and yet we are drawn to it at each return rather than thinking it repetitive. The intervening couplets all show off one particular thing: while the theme has an upward motion, the first couplet descends from the top of the keyboard, in no hurry at all. The second proudly and defiantly shows off trills in the left hand. The third is the quietest of them all, with the two hands engaged in sighing figures. The fourth again takes us to the upper range, with stormy double trills. The fifth uses echo effects while not forgetting the majestic nature of the piece. In the sixth couplet, broken dotted chords begin to build up the energy for the end. The seventh is a wonderful outburst of arpeggiated discords and sighing appoggiaturas, with the top voice descending while the bass moves upwards. For the final couplet, the note values are suddenly quickened, and running scales propel us to the final statement of the ostinato. Landowska calls this Passacaille ‘the queen of all his harpsichord pieces’; Mellers labels it ‘unquestionably the greatest single piece in Couperin’s clavecin music’. In it, Couperin displays a temperament, and a depth of passion, that is often not associated with his music.

La Morinéte is a simple gigue, perhaps evoking the daughter of the composer Jean-Baptiste Morin. Its daintiness is not without poetry and melancholy, and in this way Couperin chooses to end the ordre in the half-light rather than with splendour and magnificence.

La Mézangére comes from the Dixième Ordre, a work in which the theme of wine seems to be prominent. Antoine Scott, Seigneur de Mézangére, was the King’s Maître d’Hôtel, and the husband of one of Couperin’s pupils. Perhaps the jerky rhythm of this piece portrayed him in a drunken state. It stays in the lower half of the keyboard, never venturing far above middle C.